Held By Doom
by Mouse
Summary: Missing moments from the life of Túrin Turambar, with the women who most affected him. **Work in Progress**
1. Lalaith

| * Disclaimer: The story of the children of Húrin belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. I am using it without permission, for no profit other than my own satisfaction and that of other fans. * |  
  
  
|| Held By Doom ||  
  
  
| Part I: Lalaith |  
  
  
It was mid-morning, and spring had begun to blink over Dor-lómin. The sunlight arched a syrupy amber warmth over a field high with grass, friendly green fingers which flailed to brush against the legs of a small child. The child was dancing, her feet tiny white wings which sprung her above ground, skimming lightly atop mounds of clover with eyes closed and arms twirling, so that the lilies weaved in her yellow hair fell to the ground and were trampled beneath her feet. Her eyes opened as small, pooled reflections of the blue sky, and her lips began to move in a song. It was a simple song, a child's song, yet lovely, for none before her had sung it. She grew dizzy from spinning, tumbled to the grass, and her laughter interrupted the song, rising high, clear, bubbling as a stream leaps from bank to stone.  
  
She was Urwen, daughter of Húrin Thalion and Morwen Eledhwen, but called Lalaith for her laughter.  
  
Near to Lalaith, yet unseen by her, for he laid low in the tall grass, was another child, a boy. He was dark and pale, even as she was fair and golden, and he was older and longer than the girl. He did not speak, and appeared very solemn of countenance as his head turned in all directions, not so wildly as to catch the girl's attention, but with the sharp urgency of one who looks with a purpose. Yet at regular intervals he would watch the playing Lalaith, and his dark eyes would glow at last, mirroring the sunlight, and his mouth would soften to a smile of contentment, though it would last but a moment.  
  
He was Túrin, son of Húrin, heir to the House of Hador, and cursed.  
  
  
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TÚRIN  
  
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It is hard to keep so still, for insects crawl over my arms, and the sun beats on my back, and I grow tired of lying on my stomach, but I cannot move. If I move, Lalaith will see me, and she will want me to play with her. I cannot play with her, for I am on guard and a soldier does not leave his post. Lalaith does not understand that she needs to be protected, but she does not understand anything like I do. She does not know that there are times when no one laughs, when everyone is quiet and Father plays sad songs on his harp and Mother is cold and silent all the time. She does not know, for she is always laughing and when Lalaith is laughing, everyone is happy.  
  
That is why I must protect her, I must keep away the things that would stop her laughter, although I do not know what could ever do that, except perhaps if Mother was displeased, and no one is ever displeased with Lalaith. But I must see every shadow and hear every noise to keep watch for the Great Enemy and his servant Death. When Death takes people, they do not laugh or dance or sing. They cannot see or speak or think. They just lie, as if they are asleep, though sometimes their eyes are open, and they never wake up. Death took Mother's family.  
  
But I will keep Lalaith safe. I will stop Death.  
  
My eyes begin to hurt from looking so hard, and the day grows hot. I have been watching long enough that I may look at Lalaith for a moment and rest. But only for a moment.  
  
Lalaith runs now. She is never still. She is still learning to speak, yet with the words she knows she makes songs, and sings them over and over until I do not know if I will cry from the weariness of it or laugh that she finds such pleasure in them still.  
  
"i-loth malen o aur,  
linna meleth na i-menel . . ."  
  
A silly song, if I were to say it, but she makes it sound pretty. Elves do a lot of singing like that, about flowers and the sun, if you believe what people say. I do, because people say that Lalaith is as fair as an Elf-child. I have not seen an Elf-child, though once King Fingon rode by, and all I saw then was a lot of silver and armour and tall horses. But Father likes the Elves-- sometimes I think he likes them more than he likes us-- and he says they are beautiful, beautiful like mother, and brave like the Edain soldiers, and wiser than any man. I think I should like to meet an Elf, for Father says they do not fear Death. But perhaps it is only because they do not have a Lalaith.  
  
I am trying to look away from her again, to focus on the hills, because I am sure that is where the Enemy will come from, but it is getting harder and my eyes sting. Sometimes this morning, I would open my eyes before I even knew they were closed, and little black and blue spots would hop in front of Lalaith, and I would feel tired and hot and cold all at once.  
  
And I am afraid, because I think that perhaps now the Dark Enemy finally comes to take Lalaith, and I do not know how to stop it.  
  
But when I open my eyes, Lalaith still runs and jumps-- she pretends she is a bird-- and the sun shines, and there is not the cloud that I thought caused my eyes to go dark. There is a black and white spot now, but it is only my mother in front of our home, for she too likes to watch Lalaith play. I do not play, so she does not watch me  
.  
Something small blows into my eye, and it itches and burns so that I must rub my fists against my eyes, and I do not cry although it hurts, not because I don't want to, but because I cannot cry, not while Lalaith is laughing, for I might upset her and cause her to cry. The itching goes away now, and if I blink hard enough I will be able to see again. But I blink and rub again, because I do not see Lalaith.  
  
But I can see the grass, and the lilies, and the hills and our home far away. It is only Lalaith that is not there, not anywhere that I can see. The Enemy has taken her and I cannot get up, though I try and my knees tremble and I feel cold and sick again. But I call out her name-- "Lalaith!"-- and my voice is high and so quiet, too quiet, no one will hear me. But I am on my knees now, and though breathing hurts and my arms shake I must push to my feet, I must chase the Enemy for if he takes Lalaith away, if he gives her to Death, no one will ever be happy again.  
  
Soft white arms with delicate, pudgy little fingers wind around my neck as though to choke me, and something presses against my back so that I drop back to my knees.  
  
"Túrin," says a voice breathless and ticklish against my ear. "Why do you go? I am here!" And she laughs, she laughs at her game, and at the grass which hid her so that she snuck unseen behind me to jump and clasp my neck.  
  
But I pull her arms off, and turn so that I may see her. I crouch to her level and look at her sternly, my fright beat down by the tiny butterfly wings of her smile. "Lalaith, it is wrong to hide! If Mother cannot see you, she will think you are lost. You must not do that again."  
  
Other children do not like it when I am serious, when I am like Mother, but Lalaith does not mind; she is not frightened.  
  
"Oh, but I was not hiding, Túrin! I was a tiny ant, and you could not see me because I was only this big--" she pinches her fingers together, holds them to my face. "And I crawled on the ground . . ." She crawls now, nosing aside the long grass, giggling.  
  
"We cannot play anymore, Lalaith." I clasp the sash of her dress, use her arms to pull her to her feet. "It is time to eat; Mother waits in the house."  
  
"One more game, Túrin! Only one!"  
  
She catches my hands and begins to spin around me, singing again, laughing when she stumbles. I would like to watch her hair wave in the wind like golden clouds, and her cheeks shine pink with little smile-dents, but the spinning makes me dizzy again, and I feel ill.  
  
"No Lalaith, it is time to go home."  
  
But Lalaith does not hear me, though she drops my hands, for she looks off to the hill and listens to something I cannot hear. And then she cries out, and she runs from me so fast, her white dress sailing behind her. "Father has come home, Túrin! He is home!"  
  
I watch her go, but I do not move for my eyes are going black again, and I feel hot though my shoulders are shivering like in the winter, when it is so cold I must sleep with Lalaith to keep her warm. Suddenly I feel afraid, like before, because I know that it is the Enemy that makes me feel like this, that makes my legs weak and my stomach ill, and Lalaith runs from me! She runs, and the Enemy will catch her!  
  
"No Lalaith!" I shout, and though it is hard, I begin to run after her. "Come back! You must not run from me!"  
  
He will catch her if I do not run fast enough! Father is too far, she will not get to him in time. I must be faster, faster than Death, and brave as an Elf, and I must not fall-- I feel so dizzy-- for I am getting closer to Lalaith, closer, her golden hair flies behind her tiny shoulders, her white feet dance through the grass, and she laughs, she laughs because she does not know what chases her . . .  
  
The field whirls in circles about my eyes, and the grass rushes up to my face as finally my legs give way and all goes black.  
  
  
  
  
  
)*()*()*(  
  
  
  
  
" . . . for the Evil Breath came to Dor-lómin, and Túrin took sick, and lay long in a fever and dark dream. And when he was healed, for such was his fate and the strength of life that was in him, he asked for Lalaith. But his nurse answered: 'Speak no more of Lalaith, son of Húrin; but of your sister Urwen you must ask tidings of your mother.'  
  
"And when Morwen came to him, Túrin said to her: 'I am no longer sick, and I wish to see Urwen; but why must I not say Lalaith any more?'  
  
" 'Because Urwen is dead, and laugher is stilled in this house,' she answered. 'But you live, son of Morwen; and so does the Enemy who has done this to us.' " ------- Unfinished Tales, The Tale of the Children of Húrin.  
  
)*()*()*(  
  
  
End of Part I 


	2. Morwen

| * Disclaimer: The story of the children of Húrin belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. I am using it without permission, for no profit other than my own satisfaction and that of other fans. * |  
  
  
|| Held By Doom ||  
  
  
| Part II: Morwen |  
  
  
Autumn drew over Dor-lómin in the Year of Lamentation. The sky folded in grey sheets, leaves gold and orange falling in silent reverence around the tall trunks of evergreens. The waters of Nen Lalaith were chilled, and in the house of Húrin Thalion few words were spoken, fewer smiles exchanged. For Húrin had not returned from Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and Easterlings lurked in Dor-lómin. Of the people of Hador they made thralls, and took all that they possessed. The household of Húrin alone remained, and they were without goods or cattle, the land fallen into decay though they laboured hard.  
  
Inside the house, Túrin son of Húrin stood in his bedchamber, dark-haired, half-grown, unlike his father in solemnity, yet in his eyes sharing Húrin's fire of sudden ferocity, and swiftness of pity. He was alone, and in his hands he held a sack in which he put the few belongings remaining to him.  
  
On the threshold of the house stood a woman, tall and white. Though she was heavy with child, her figure was drawn with grace and dignity, her head held aloft with pride, hung with a mass of hair that shone sleek and black. The Easterlings would not touch her, for they feared her as they feared the power of the Fair Folk. She was Morwen called Eledhwen, the Elven-Fair, and mother of Túrin who was to be called Turambar.  
  
  
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TÚRIN  
  
)*(  
  
  
I think my father is dead, and that is why my mother is sending me away. My father is dead, my sister is dead, and my mother will starve if she is not made a slave to the Easterlings as all others are. But I must be spared, so that when I am older, I can come back to save everyone. That is my duty. I am the heir of the House of Hador.  
  
It is a lonely task, but only I may undertake it. It is hard to leave my little room, though there is nothing in it, and harder to know that I will leave Labadal, my only friend. She will not send him with me on the journey because he is lame. But Morwen does not cry, though she gives up all that she has left, so I will not anymore, though I feel as though a great weight is pressing against my chest, and it hurts so that I think I might cry out if I were not afraid that she would think I am weeping.  
  
She waits outside the house to bid me farewell. I hear her footsteps: slow, heavy, pacing.  
  
"Túrin," she calls me, not loud, but still I tremble at the sound for my feet have rooted to the wooden floor. I know why the Easterlings are afraid of her. It is the invisible White Wall that separates her from us, that makes her Elven-fair. It is the coldness, the clearness of her eyes that let you know she sees everything as it is, and she is tall, like a great tower with no doors, only small windows at the top. Sometimes you can see through them; other times you only see your reflection.  
  
The room wavers in front of me, like ripples in a glass stream. I feel lightheaded and realize I am not breathing. But I must; I must live. It is my duty. It is my burden.  
  
When I walk from the bed room I feel the roots ripping up, and they trail from my feet dry and thirsty, never again to find home. I step through the door and the air is not cold but for the distance of Morwen, who stands away from me, slender arms clasped over her swollen belly. She watches me and I do not understand what makes her eyes shine so, and I wish that she would speak for then I would understand her.  
  
"You go to the Elves, Túrin," she says, and her voice is calm. "Those whom your father loved most dearly. You will be safe with them."  
  
"I do not wish to be safe and alone," I say, and I am hurt for she does not speak her heart, only words which I have heard before. "But I will go."  
  
She is far away; only her eyes touch me. "You will learn much lore from the Sindar; much wisdom that I could not teach you."  
  
I do not cry. "You have taught me courage."  
  
"Then I have taught you all that I know." Her hands, slender and beautiful, seize my head, and she brushes my hair back with her thumbs, flattening her palm against my cheek. Her hand is warm against my skin, and it does not tremble as she gazes at me gravely. "We are alike in mood, my son, and I do not ask you to be merry. But do not let your grief overpower you, for though you have met with much sorrow in your life, there is still much that you have yet to face."  
  
I ache at her touch, her voice, for I recall naught of my father's and he has left me. Her hand lifts from me and the warmth fades. Still she looks at me with strange eyes, eyes that are deep and dark like a well, and I wonder what lies at the bottom. Does she hold the face of Urwen inside of her as I do? Or does she hold some memory of me, perhaps of us as we stand now, dark and solemn, without tear, without smile? For that is how she always stands, Morwen the Elven-Fair, Morwen the Proud. Perhaps it is how I will be. Perhaps it is how I am.  
  
I speak only to say, "You will follow when you are able?"  
  
She stoops and swiftly kisses my brow. "Goodbye, son of Morwen," she says softly, and turns me away.  
  
Gethron and Grithnir are my guides, and one takes me by the hand to lead me away from the house, to the hills. I look at the ground we pass over, grass and crumbled leaf, earth and rock, and there, the last of the lilies is crushed beneath Grithnir's heel. I leap away from him in anger, shouting words I do not even hear, for they cry, "Peace! Peace, Túrin!" And they each take hold of my hands to restrain me. The anger fades and I do not know why a lone wilting flower troubled me so. I walk on between them, listening to the crunch of our footsteps, and at last I am glad, glad to be going to Elves who do not die, who do not fear death, who are not sad or cold or foolish. I will be a valiant soldier and people shall not know that I am not an Elf, and perhaps I, too, will be fearless of death.  
  
Gethron leads, but now he stops and looks at me with compassion, his hand to my head. "After this, we will not stop for a long time. Turn and look upon the house of your father, Túrin."  
  
I do not wish to look again, but I do as he says and turn my head, straining to gaze through the writhing trunks of trees to the house of Húrin. The lands around the house have grown sallow, and weeds thorny and twisted overtake what was once a garden. The beams of the house sag, splintered, and where once hung the banner of the house of Hador is shreds. Alone and proud stands my mother, her chin lifted without fear though around her all grows dark and wild, a single erect white figure amid the ruin.  
  
I cannot see her face.  
  
And I see my world as it blackens around me, and I am alone, without laughter, without beauty, without friend. Yet Morwen still stands; and I walk from her.   
  
Pain smites me as a sword, but it is second to the grief which has taken hold of my throat, for I wish to call out, I wish to struggle with these jailors who take me away, I wish to fly back to my mother and never leave, for she stands alone in front of the house, alone and brave, and I know why her eyes shine, I know that she longs for me even as I do for her. And I weep openly now, unashamed for I care nothing of my pride, not while Morwen still stands.  
  
"Morwen, Morwen, when shall I see you again?"  
  
The scream rips from my throat, and I hold to it in desperation, as though by the echo of my own words I will bind myself to this place, to my home, to the house of my father and Morwen Eledhwen. I am shaken violently by my own weeping, and it is by the hand of Grithnir that I am held upright, for I am weak, weak in my grief, and I heed not the words of the men, listening only to the forest around me.  
  
But there is no answer.  
  
I am alone.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
)*()*()*(  
  
"But Morwen standing on her threshold heard the echo of that cry in the wooded hills, and she clutched the post of the door so that her fingers were torn. This was the first of the sorrows of Túrin." ------------ Unfinished Tales  
  
)*()*()*(  
  
  
End of Part II 


	3. Nellas

| * Disclaimer: The story of the children of Húrin belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. I am using it without permission, for no profit other than my own satisfaction and that of other fans. * |  
  
  
|| Held By Doom ||  
  
  
| Part III: Nellas |  
  
  
Scarce light filtered through the canopy of the woods of Doriath, yet there seemed no darkness to those who walked there. Branches wove together in a vivid green mesh and knotted brown trunks were rooted to the earth in what appeared to be random, pathless pattern, the wrinkled arms of the trees offering no guidance through the mazes of Melian.  
  
The boy who treaded the nonexistent paths paid no heed to leaf-rustle or bird-chirp, his dark head bowed in thought. The mouth which once seemed to frown indefinitely had softened with nurture and knowledge, for as the years of his childhood passed in the Kingdom of Doriath Túrin's mood had lightened. His youthful limbs were lanky yet they proved to hold more grace than what appeared, for no blunder or thrash disturbed the woven threads of serenity about the forest.  
  
A short distance behind him, a slim figure drifted among the trees. Nut-coloured tresses and earthy garments blended her to the surrounding wood, but the salient eyes of an elf-maiden sharpened the slight face, spots of tree-strained sunlight sliding awry as she tilted her head. She followed Túrin without sound or falter, her feet not advancing slowly in the caution of duty as once before-- but stepping lightly over the ground, drawn ever forward by love.  
  
  
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TÚRIN  
  
)*(  
  
  
"Nellas!"  
  
I saw her behind me. I suppose, in the back of my mind somewhere, I knew that she was there-- I know she is always with me when I walk the forest, for so she has told me. But never before have I seen her until she reveals herself to me. Often she used to startle me from tree-branch or log-perch, impish and playful at times, solemn and intense at others. Often when I was young I would seek to find her instead, imitating the stealthy motions of the march-wardens-- when all the while she crept behind me in amusement.   
  
As time passed I grew tired of the game and sought her no more, some days content to allow her to appear when she would but more often calling upon her at my will. This gave me control, in part, over my periods of teaching-- for though they were and still are of interest to me, language and elven-lore are not all that I come to the wood to think upon. Still more time passed, and our meetings grew more irregular as the things I wished to learn grew farther and farther from what she taught. Until, at last, I called on her no more.  
  
I know she is always there-- but at times I forget why.  
  
I saw her. Just for a moment-- nay, a fraction of a moment-- but it is enough. Never before have I known such a curious rush inside me, triumph mingled with a keen sense of sadness. Sadness that I am taught, and have no more need for the teacher.  
  
"Nellas," I call again, so the name will not be so strange on my tongue, standing to face the trees which moments ago were at my back. Though I know it is vain, my eyes crawl across every trunk, every bush, seeking a sign of her. It is, of course, from behind one of the trees I have already passed over that she steps out, and forward a pace, and another, and now she stands in front of me, her face grave and arms meeting in front of her with hands clasped around each other. She does not speak.  
  
She looks the same, the same as when she first led a child called Túrin to a "secret" clearing in the middle of the forest, where the child came later and wept in grief for his mother. The same as when she scolded the child for using his newly acquired archery skills to pierce a songbird. She looks the same, she is the same, but I am not-- does nothing change Elves?  
  
Her voice is soft, her eyes lowering from mine. "It has been long since you last called me, Túrin."  
  
Long? How can it have been long for an Elf, with all eternity to live? "I am sorry," the words fly from my mouth without thought. "I am sorry, Nellas. I would speak with you now." I do not tell her it is goodbye that I would say.  
  
But her dark eyes lift and search my face, her lips parting in a wordless cry, and I know that my intent is not hidden from her. Her hands untwine and reach for me-- ethereal and white they catch my own hands, and she clasps them between her palms. My chin falls down and I stare at our hands, surprised to find the slender length of my fingers surpasses hers.  
  
"There is one more thing," she whispers, she too gazing at our hands. "There is one more thing I would teach you before we part."  
  
I nod, hesitantly, and step back from her, suddenly loathe to be released from her hands. But swiftly she lets me go and with nimble stride passes me, taking the lead in a direction I know well. I lengthen my gait, catching up to her, then hasten my speed to walk past her. Without pause she breaks into a run, and now it is a race. Across the mossy forest floor I bound, fighting the urge to look for her, fixing my gaze only on the invisible path laid out in front of me. I duck a low-hanging branch and my hair swings into my eyes-- I push it back impatiently, my brow damp with perspiration, and find Nellas springing ahead of me, her long hair sailing behind her.  
  
She laughs then, suddenly, a wild laugh of gladness unbridled. My mouth spreads into a smile as the blood pounds in my temples, my feet vaulting over a log. We are almost to the clearing-- I strain to run faster-- it will be a close race, for she is ever at my heels or ahead of me, still laughing, tresses snarling over her shoulders. It is within sight now, and clenching my jaw I lunge in a last exertion.  
  
But at the entry to the clearing, Nellas holds back. I hurdle past her, tumbling onto the ground, panting and looking at her in accusation.  
  
She is breathing evenly when she sits on the ground across from me, folding her legs underneath her. I roll onto my knees, forcing my breaths to slow, lifting my chin as though I am proud to have defeated her. My pulse rages on and I feel hot until she lays a cool hand against my cheek, and it feels as though a soft wind washes over me. I nod, close my mouth, and her hand falls.  
  
"Now," Nellas says, and the wood noises seem to fall silent around us. "I will teach you of love."   
  
The cool wind has chilled the sweat on my brow to ice. "Love," I repeat. She leans forward, for the beginning of the lesson is when I speak, speak of what I already know-- or more often, what I think I know. "Love is a feeling," I say slowly. "It is a desire. It is when you desire to do all that is in your power to care for someone." I turn from her as though in distraction. "It is when you put their safety above your own, when you would send them away from you even though you do not wish to, only because you must. Love is being able to say goodbye."  
  
Nellas' eyes glisten. "Yes," is all she says.  
  
I wait a moment, and when she does not speak further, I ask, "What will you teach me?"  
  
"There are different natures to love. You have spoken of one-- I will teach you of another."  
  
"Oh," I say, and my voice rings hollow. "That kind of love."  
  
She looks to be in such pain that I wish only to tell her that I will never leave her, that we will always walk these woods together, that she need not ever fear or long for me. "There is another desire which can give birth to love, and that is the desire for beauty," she says, her eyes distant from mine. "A particular beauty that will remind us of that true beauty which exists in the world, the world of concepts and ideas. The love we feel for beauty on this earth may never be truly satisfied, but in loving a certain image, an individual beauty, we can transcend to the contemplation of beauty in itself."  
  
Nellas stops, her lips compressing as she swallows, and I wonder that she continues with difficulty. "This is not, then, to love a particular individual, but the element they possess of true beauty. It is a selfish love, desiring only the object of beauty, and not to share their values and precepts. It is a desire to serve ourselves, and not the other."  
  
I stare at the ground, watching an ant pick its way across a leaf, and only now do I realize that our hands are again clasped. I wet my lips, my head bending toward the ground so that my hair hangs as a dark curtain on either sides of my eyes. I feel I should say something, but I do not know what, so I wait for her instead.  
  
A bird is singing somewhere far above us. I wonder if Nellas remembers that I killed one. I wonder if she knows that I regret it.  
  
I can stand the silence no longer. "Is there not another kind of love you will teach me of?" I ask. "A perfect love, combining the first nature and the second?"  
  
"No," she answers sadly, and looking up I am shocked to find her cheeks are wet. "For I can only teach you what I know, Túrin."  
  
And that is why I must leave you, Nellas, for there is more that I would know than the teachings of simple wood-elf, an elf who hides from crowd and building, who is more at home with children than her people. There is yet much that I must know, Nellas, and you cannot teach it to me, and that is why I must leave.  
  
But looking at her face-- her eyes so great and dark that watched me ever to keep me from harm, her lips that would soften and curl when she spoke my name, her cheeks that would shine dewy with tears for my griefs-- looking at her, I cannot speak the words aloud.  
  
Her grip on my hand tightens and she raises it to her face, pressing her mouth to my knuckles. Tears wet my hand, stinging, biting the skin-- but she lays her cheek against my palm, and its softness is soothing.  
  
Is she, too, unable to say the word?  
  
"Goodbye, Túrin," she whispers.  
  
My hand falls limp to the dirt, and opening my eyes I find the clearing is empty but for me. I trace the trails of her tears across my hand, willing them to remain-- but too soon they are dried, and I am left as before.  
  
Or perhaps not.  
  
For at the last, even unwitting, Nellas taught me that love which she thought she could not.  
  
  
)*()*()*(  
  
  
"But Nellas of Doriath never saw him again, and his shadow passed from her." ------- Unfinished Tales, The Tale of the Children of Húrin.  
  
  
)*()*()*(  
  
  
End of Part III 


	4. Melian

| * Disclaimer: The story of the children of Húrin belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. I am using it without permission, for no profit other than my own satisfaction and that of other fans. * |  
  
**Finch**: Of course it was Nellas who taught Plato! You didn't really think a mortal could figure all that out on his own, did you?  
  
  
|| Held By Doom ||  
  
  
| Part IV: Melian |  
  
  
The great beech tree of Menegroth was named Hírilorn, the Queen-Tree, and with the majesty of her name she stood: towering imperiously with thick branches twisting and stretching to encompass all around her. Green moss was her velvet, and the leaves her crown as she loomed over those who were but her subjects.  
  
At her feet they sat: Elu Thingol, Greymantle, the Hidden King, and Melian the Maia, who clothed herself in flesh to be his wife and whose voice had taught the nightingales their song. His hair was of silver and his glance of harsh steel, though it bore a sorrow that did not diminish even as it did not fester. Her eyes bore sorrow deeper and joy greater, and her hair fell to her quicksilver feet in hues of black and deepest red. Both looked to a figure who stood before them-- a figure tall and lean, dark-haired and white-faced.  
  
It was no Elf who stood before the King and Queen of Doriath, but Túrin, heir of the House of Hador and Thingol's fosterling. A boy he was no longer, but a Man and strange to those who looked upon him, for pain and pride had wrought a face fair and fell to see. No flinch or tremble affected him when he asked the King for mail, sword, and shield, and laid claim to the Dragon-Helm of Dor-lómin that was his heirloom.  
  
A boy no longer.  
  
)*(  
  
TÚRIN  
  
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"Beren my kinsman did more," I say.  
  
It is a childish thing to say, a foolish thing-- but so they speak to me, as a child, a mortal child who knows not of what he speaks. I would that I did know nothing of war, of pain, of vengeance-- but it is not so. I am hindered by both my age and my race-- they see no place for me but to serve under an Elf-lord. For what can a lone Man do, Thingol asks, what more can he do but lend to the Elves such little aid as he is able? Such has the House of my kindred fallen, that we are seen as nothing, and capable of nothing.  
  
"Beren, and Lúthien," says Melian. "But you are over-bold to speak so to the father of Lúthien. Not so high is your destiny, I think, Túrin son of Morwen, though your fate is twined with that of the Elven-folk, for good or for ill. Beware of yourself, lest it be ill."  
  
Why do you always name me the son of Morwen, Melian Queen of Nightbirds? Do you forget my father Húrin Thalion, Húrin the Steadfast, who drove the Orcs into the sands of Anfauglith and fought alongside the mighty Elf-lords in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad? Do you forget him who was taken and is seen no more, he who loved the Elves dearer than his own kind, he who was fierce in battle and sudden in pity?  
  
Sometimes I do.  
  
Sometimes I wonder if I did not give all my heart to my sister Urwen, and where it lies now there are none who can tell me.  
  
But then I remember Morwen my mother, and Nienor my sister whom I know not, and, too, Húrin my father, and it is he who I should honour with my strength and my skill, he above all others. I love him, with a fervour that can be dizzying-- I love him for his strength and his wisdom, and for his victories and his achievements. I love him for he is my father-- but that is a fact that has been of little comfort these long years of his absence.  
  
_'I do not forget the name of your father, Túrin.'  
_  
I steel myself and look to her face, into the eyes of Melian the Maia. They are deep and dark with ages of life before time, before the world, before there was grief. It can bring unnatural peace, and wonder, to gaze into her eyes-- but I am too fearful of becoming lost there.  
  
_'But his is a name of great honour, and one you must earn.' _ Her face is gentle, infinitely gentle, but the brightness of her spirit burns strong and stern through her eyes. _ 'Son of Morwen you were born, and will remain-- you are hers in more than mood, of like pride and mind, and at times that will be of no virtue to you. Yet we cannot change who were are, Túrin-- only who we become.'  
_  
I will earn his name, the name of my father. I will become the Steadfast, the Elf-friend, dauntless of death and mighty in life. It is my birthright-- it is my burden-- it is my Doom.  
  
_'Do not speak of Doom, young one.' _ There is sorrow, too, in her eyes, brighter and colder in the fire of her spirit. Her face is solemn as she looks upon me. _'The Younger Children are not bound to the Music as the Elder-- that is your gift, to shape beyond the graven fate. Do not squander your gift, son of Morwen-- do not bind yourself to the rulings of circumstance. Great deeds you can do, and great evil also. It is you who must choose the one and not the other.'  
_  
And that is what I have now chosen, Lady Queen! I would go beyond the marches of this land, beyond this wary defence, unto the very lands of the Enemy himself. I would put him to the defence, challenge him, and lurk no longer in the safety of the Girdle. Great deeds I will do, lady, great deeds as my kindred before me, before the fall of the House of the Hador. Great deeds as my father did-- and for him I will do them.  
  
There are some who say he lives yet, my father-- lives in capture under the eyes of Morgoth.  
  
Can you not see that living here in peace will drive me mad? Can you not see that I am driven by a force greater than my pride?  
  
_'Do not underestimate the force of pride, Túrin, nor the evil it can bring.'_  
  
How can it be evil, Lady Queen, when it is but a pride in the goodness and wisdom that has been taught to me by those whom I love? What evil can there be in love? What evil, lady? It is love that drives me, love that will drive me always.  
  
_'And when it has been taken from you, son of Morwen, what then will drive you?'_  
  
My sister Urwen is gone, and from my mother I am sundered, and my father I will see never again-- what more can be taken from me?  
  
They are gone, and still I will both give and seek love. For the love of my family I will do these deeds-- to avenge the dead and liberate the living. For love, my lady-- for love.  
  
For I was taught of love.  
  
She releases me from her eyes then, from the wells of ancient knowledge, from peace not yet forgotten and sorrow that waxes beautiful. A part of me is glad, for there are things there that I do not wish to see.  
  
  
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"Then after a silence she spoke to him again, saying: 'Go now, fosterson; and heed the counsel of the king. Yet I do not think that you will long abide with us in Doriath after the coming of manhood. If in days to come you remember the words of Melian, it will be for your good: fear both the heat and the cold of your heart.' " ------- Unfinished Tales, The Tale of the Children of Húrin.  
  
  
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End of Part IV.


End file.
